Wil Wheaton’s dog died – losing a pet is horrible. I know the cynics will roll their eyes but if you’ve lived with an animal – especially a dog – it’s almost impossible not to imbue them with human characteristics. They become friends. And they’re more reliable than most humans. I can still be brought to sudden tears if the memories of my childhood dog’s (Rusty) death sneak up on me…

 

Wil’s post reminded me of the weirdest thing that happened over the weekend.

 

My parents had a dog that died about 18 months ago. Nipper was a Yorkshire terrier/Highland terrier cross and – as the mix of breeds implies – he was a hugely energetic, mentally unstable, tiny ball of fluff with an ego the size of Texas. He was old (thirteen) and hadn’t been particularly well for a long time. But he died when my parents were over here with us for my daughter’s birthday party and it was an unpleasant shock for them to come home to. Nipper had been staying with the neighbours – in whose house he probably spent almost as much time as he did with my parents – so it wasn’t as though he was being neglected or anything.

 

My daughter, like most children, would like a pet – I’d love to have a dog too – but circumstances don’t allow it, at least not in a way that I’d be happy enough. So Niamh kind of adopted Nipper as her pet – even though he was a grouchy old mutt who didn’t really like children and, by the time Niamh met him, was only intermittently interested of clambering out of his doggie bed to kill any small animal (or squeaky toy) that was foolish enough to come in range of his jaws or to sit around your feet until you stood on him.

 

Even so, Niamh can’t have actually met Nipper more than four or five times in her life (though she did “talk” to him on the phone a lot – don’t ask).

 

She was really upset when the dog died. And she kept mentioning him. Saying how much she missed Nipper. Fretting about what happened to him. Drawing him in her pictures. Frankly, it was a bit strange.

 

My parents have been over this week. Pitting Niamh and Grandparents in a mutual appreciation duel to the death. We said goodbye to them on Sunday night, came home, got Niamh ready for bed and then she burst into tears.

 

“What’s wrong?” Her mum asked – expecting a torrent about how she was missing her granny and granddad.

 

“I killed Nipper!”

 

“What?”

 

Through floods of tears on a scale only a six-year-old girl (and perhaps an Old Testament god) can manage she blurted: “I wanted granny and granddad to come over to my party and that made them leave Nipper behind on his own and he died. I thought they’d leave him enough food until they came back but he died. And it’s my fault!”

 

Three things that strike me about this…